Nameless Soldiers
by ItsumademoOtaku
Summary: Various reflections on humanity. See if you can guess who they are. Short chapters. New chapter is finally up, as requested! I decided I'll do 10 chapters, then I'll add a last one with who I envisioned each chapter as. Sorry it's been so long ^_^
1. Soldier's Despair

Hey fellow FF nuts __

Hey fellow FF nuts. It's kind of just random babbling from each character's point of view. They are in the ruined Sanc Kingdom. The chapters are short - each is a different character. See if you can tell who it is!

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Gundam Wing, blah blah BLAH B-L-A-H THEREISAIDITSODON'TYOUDARESUEME.

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Nameless Soldiers

Soldier's Despair

We are all nameless soldiers plodding through a world of darkness and despair.

My wet hair plasters my pale face. Sometimes I wonder why I take such care of it and my clothes when I don't even have a person to go with the colors.

The dark sky provides a fitting atmosphere as we gather around the destruction we have created. There's nothing like the feeling you get when you destroy something. Inside the great machines we call gundams there is a horrible ringing silence. We become so desperate to fill it that any sound will do. Blow something up. Shoot something. Kill someone and listen to them scream. Burn the city and watch the women and children flee in fear of our great, gruesome mechanical monsters.

But don't worry, it's all in your head.

It's not natural, to mask our fears and our hunger and our anger. We humans are such impure creatures. We are untrue to ourselves as we allow ourselves to imagine we are perfect. We do it to forget the image impressed upon our young minds of blood and blackened skin and mutated bodies lying among the ruins of creation. We do it to remain young. Yet the memories can never be taken again, nor would any person want to steal the painful memories. To me, any joy I ever felt was gone. I want someone to give me back my innocence as it was stolen so long ago, before I even saw the battlefield.

I see them hold each other tenderly, such a moment I would never had imagined out of someone so cold. The third is looking at me sadly, longingly. I can feel his gaze, knowing he would rather be close to me than anyone else. What am I supposed to feel? I know his secret, the dark and filthy things he does at night. It's not hard to know, as I'm sure the others do, late in the middle of our sleep cycles sharing the single room in separate cots, green and uncomfortable. We all lie awake, longing for release for the deep primal urges that come with age, unstoppable as war itself. In a way I admire him. He's not afraid to act out what he feels, even though he knows he will never get what he wants from me. Maybe because he knows he'll never have me.

I find myself jealous of them, able to express things to each other that I'll never be able to understand even if they wrote them down for me. He is the only one of us that does not sleep alone. I hear them, we all do. They're not ashamed. Inside themselves and between, coiled and wound and bound so many ways as to never be untangled, they share the release together. Sometimes they cry, sometimes they scream, and sometimes they laugh. No one of us would dare mention it, they deserve that much from us. We all long to have what they do, and do what they do, without fear of criticism. It's why I know he's stronger than we are. Despite myself, I have comfort knowing he's that much stronger than I am.

The world is gray. The buildings, fallen to the ground, still cast shadows of once-great things. They are little more than shattered memories, abandoned and dangerous, as is the mind of each of us.

I push back my hair and put on my invisible mask, unable to show myself to the world any longer, during my times of weakness. Now is not one of those times.

I am a nameless soldier who stole the identity of a man who was as controversial as his death.

My name is not my own. I don't have the strength to tell the others that I am just a nameless soldier, plodding across the battlefields of time holding my bleeding heart in my hands. I can't do it.

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	2. Soldier's Lonliness

_I'm not going to introduce these chapters any more. It ruins the effect._

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Nameless Soldiers

Soldier's Loneliness

We are all nameless soldiers, seeking for purpose.

I watch him walk away and I can do nothing. I know he doesn't like me, but my head can't help but dream of him. I wish I could be as brave as him, to stand alone and pretend to not need help and comfort while the others blatantly show it in front of us all. I'm not sure who is the boldest. We keep so many secrets between us, so many things I would dare not tell the adults. I fear the adults' scorn, but the others know what it feels like, to be our age and full of these feelings and emotions and pain and sadness and longing.

I feel disgusted with myself, but I know I won't stop. I hate the mess, the embarrassment, and I wonder how the others can stand to hold themselves. I wonder if I'll ever have someone, so I won't have to spoil myself and be ashamed.

I call them all my friends, though they barely acknowledge me. I'm too different, too childish. My childish dreams and childish thoughts and little-boy looks don't fit my nightly acts of ungodliness. I am an outcast, and not by choice, unlike he who sits on the hill pretending not to care.

The raindrops mask the tears I know are falling from my eyes. I remember all those people who have cared enough to die for me. They like me because I'm one of them, grown in a laboratory, unknowing of his true family . . . only I do know. I'm too scared they'll leave me if I admit I'm not a test-tube child, as all of them were. I was the only one of thirty siblings to have been born of a natural mother. That she died after is almost ironic.

My father's forgiveness came so easily when I returned. Now I know he'd planned his death all along. He must have believed he knew how I felt about fighting. He was my father . . . but I have to call him a fool. I retain my belief that lives are not worth wasting. True, there are millions of us, but every one of us is worth more than can be ever expressed. The boundaries of love are limitless. They extend beyond the ends of the infinite universe, far past where the passionate stars call home.

I'm a lot less innocent than I look. It's not my fault I don't look grown-up. When we go to dinner, I still get the kids' menus. I don't mind. It helps me forget who I am. It helps me forget what I've done. Because, like a child, I lose control. I can't help myself. I can't control my grief. I can't control my anger. I can't control my lust. I can't control anything.

_Gomen_, I apologize in general to whoever is willing to pay that much attention. I have to be sorry, or I'd commit suicide. We all need something to escape. I have my insanity. I don't want it to go away. I don't dare think of what I'd do.

For all the compassion I have, none is returned. People don't give a damn. Sometimes I want to scream "FUCK IT!" and get it over, but my gentle nature betrays me. The words won't form. While the Catholic boy hurls curses and insults and claims people's lives I can't utter a noise of defiance against myself. Sometimes, I want to force my desire against the wall and have my way, just so I could feel flesh and pain and pleasure and not feel so guilty. I want to fuck him until he surrenders. I want to surrender myself and let him fuck me. I like that word, fuck. It's full of conviction, certainty. I just can't say it.

Here I stand, nameless for all that the world cares, a soldier lost not only through his sadness but also through his desire for the one thing he won't have.

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	3. Soldier's Grief

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Nameless Soldiers

Soldier's Grief

We are all nameless soldiers, sent forever to fight and never to have peace of mind, lest we need to use our mind at all.

I see them from far off, the two huddled close in the middle of destruction, and I remember that day of her lying dead in my arms when I could have saved her. That's why I avoid them. I'm jealous of what they share that is so perfect, when all I have is indeed ruin and grief.

I named my gundam after her legacy, though she in actuality left little of one but in my own heart . . . my one and only love. She was gone that day, and I could do nothing but abandon all of my hopes and dreams and become a mindless soldier of destruction and eternal fighting. My celibacy is a tribute to her. I know it will be hard, tempted at every turn with the women who think they want me, but I will not surrender. I will never surrender.

I came so close to dying. I almost went to her, but they had to save my life. They had to save me, but what use am I? I plod through life like a packhorse, burdening all the petty ideals and weak-willed battles. I don't want it. I don't want to be a nameless soldier of the battlefield forevermore. I want to be with her. I want to be there, yet they will never let me go. They don't understand.

I begged him to kill me. I _begged_ and _pleaded_ and did everything I could think of, but he wouldn't because he believes life is too precious to throw away. He's changed much. He doesn't understand my grief. If she died, I wonder, would he try and follow? I look at the scars on my wrists . . . the blonde saved me just in time, when I no longer had the strength to stop him from running for help. Damn him. Damn him to eternal Hell.

Sometimes, when there is no one to turn to, you must turn to yourself. Fighting numbs me, makes me not feel what I know will only be delayed. It's like an addiction. The high is incredible, and the low can only be stopped with more battle. The peaks keep getting lower and the lows further still, until finally you're below the line no matter what. You can't stop, because you're afraid of the depression that might kill you. You depend on it, like a drug. Then, finally, it no longer matters. You come to this state of being where you plod through life as if it was water vapor, getting by on everything you learned and not on what your conscious tells you is right. Good and bad mutate, yin and yang get distorted until you can't tell light from shadow, shadow from absolute darkness.

And then you tell yourself that there is no true darkness. Even the blackest of space has stars that shine like pinholes in a sheet of black plastic. Consider yourself recovered and ready for the world once again, you throw yourself into the arms of another, a temporary sanctuary. You're not really ready for a new love, a new intrigue and a new dream. You think you are, but exercising a wound only tears it open again. The cycle repeats: you get hurt, you hurt them, you fall back to the low. It is much better just to stop when you're ahead.

My life no longer has merit. It is a chore. Joy isn't an option; it's been erased from the board. Suffering consumes all. That's what Buddha taught. Ironically, that's also what the soldiers are taught. I am like a nameless soldier, fighting to maintain an acceptable state of being when my mind suffers. I have to save myself, and that numbness is the only way.

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	4. Soldier's Purpose

Nameless Soldiers **__**

Nameless Soldiers

Soldier's Purpose

We are all nameless soldiers, waiting to find a way to stand on that thin red line between Heaven and Hell.

Rain is pure. That's what they always said. Rain rid the world of evil and saved the few men, women and animals that God thought were worth saving. It is difficult to love someone you can't stand. It's even harder to love someone you hate. So while rain is pure, it drowned countless living things that had done nothing to earn wrath; simply because they wouldn't fit on the boat. Actually, I think rain is as bloody as the rest.

It's true I was raised Catholic and the others still think I am. I don't know what I believe anymore. I used to believe I'd be going to Heaven. I don't want to consider the possibility that I'll be going to Hell. Instead, I tend to claim ignorance to it all. Dumb people have it easy. They don't have to understand anything. If there is one thing you _can_ believe in, it's Death. Shinigami comes for us all. He sits next to me on those weary days of violence and grins incessantly, cruelly, not caring who lives or dies as long as somebody dies. It's my job to see to it. I wouldn't want to let him down.

Everyone tells me my hair is going to kill me someday, but I can't in good conscience cut it. It represents all my grievances, all the people who've given their lives for me and who I've become. It lets me get on with things. I don't mind the jokes, the burns, and the sarcasm. It's my life and what I choose to do with it is none of their concern. I don't pretend to care about them any more than I actually do. Some of them care too much, some don't care at all.

For someone who doesn't care, he seems awfully sensitive around _her._ They're such polar opposites it's absolutely amazing how they survived this together. She brings out what little passion the ice-boy has in him. It's the only reason he wasn't killed at least a dozen times, Shingami suspects. He has more passion for life than probably any of us— even him— know. I find it funny how he values his own life so little, willing to sacrifice every last shred of himself for a greater good. Deep down, he really cares. He compensates by being extra cold.

And now, the curtain's closing. That doesn't end the play. Every person who walks out of that theatre is going to revise the ending, many of them will contemplate the afterward, a few of them will dream of being there, all of them will forget the small things and make them up with their own intrigues. Once the curtain closes, the action only stops on the other side. Inside, the men and women and others who gave their sweat and blood to build, play, produce and special effect have to clean up. It's the side of the show no one ever sees. We don't want to know what happens on the inside, neither before nor after. People are ignorant that way. That's why people die and get taken advantage of. _They don't try and protect themselves with information, because they believe it won't happen._ Well, I got news for you: it happens all the time. We insist on covering up the yellow underside of our species. We _imagine_ everything is fine, so we start to believe it. That's why I don't believe in God, _per se_, anymore. We need someone to blame for this deep trench we've dug ourselves into. I blame us.

There is no difference between Heaven and Hell. There is no line, only shades of gray intermixed with the greens and blues and reds that make up this wonderful spectrum we call variety. It goes so many ways I get lost and the only time I'm sure is when I'm hovering above the pallet looking at the colors from the outside. I'm not one to discriminate, but there are some colors I would like to do away with. Heaven and Hell are not places to go; they're in this world with our sorry selves. We make them sound so horrible to forget the terrors of _this _life.

We are nameless soldiers trying not to get mixed in with the bleeding, staining colors life has dealt us. Even white is not pure. We risk our lives in hopes we won't see the next day. People say there is no absolution. There is an absolution. Death.

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	5. Soldier's Redemption

Nameless Soldiers

**_Nameless Soldiers_**

Soldier's Redemption

We are nameless soldiers without direction, without instruction, without depth. We are seen by our mentors as pawns in the great game of war, casualties forgotten in the heat of battle. I know I will always be merely a shell to implant orders in. I used to be just that.

Not since I met her had I realized just how much a single human life can be worth— or how little. I have always aimed to please those who were my only images of life— the military trainers and scientists I knew as a child. Earning praise meant me fulfilling my mission with utmost dedication and accomplishment. I learned to discipline myself harsher than any other person could.

I failed on one account, and she was there to catch me. I said she was in my way, but she refused to be deterred, believing in rightness more than orders. Suddenly, I wanted to escape my life of imprisonment and find a personality. She did that to me. I couldn't let her die. She had given me meaning, even when I didn't realize it.

On this cold, rainy day I hold her tight in comfort as she cries against me. Everything that was left for her is gone, here, in a simple blast of fire and wind. I wish there was something I could do to take away the pain, but I can only sit helpless with my arms around her. No one died, but she lost everything that meant something to her.

My words just days ago come back to me. Despite everything my soldier's instinct tells me is right, I can't just leave her behind. I tried to end it when I first sensed my emotions coming into play, but seemingly even the Powers That Be wouldn't separate us. Her passion for life amazed me. _How could someone see so much beauty in a world that's so ugly?_ I'd often think she was trying hard to shield herself from reality, but I finally realized what it really was. Seeing beauty in everything is difficult. Those who have that gift are rare and difficult to intimidate. That is why she was so stubborn. She saw the beauty in me that I could never have found.

I pushed myself so hard to earn praise, approval, but never once did I get my own satisfaction. Exacting that, I was so easily manipulated. 

That is the ultimate, most evil definition of selflessness. 

I can't understand how I was able to put myself through such torture. When she leapt in front of me despite the danger to herself and my constant threats, I saw a bit of myself in such a sweet person. Then, I saw that she was happy she'd saved such a worthless bit of skin and bone like me! 

That is the most pure definition of selflessness.

Sometimes I wonder who I would have been, had I been raised with more of a mixture. Would I be a moralistic warrior or a cold-hearted, unmotivated boy? I know it sounds contradictory, which is why I know it didn't happen that way. So many sit idle with their great dreams and never go and achieve them. Before I had dreams, I had bravery. Bravery plus motivation is courage. Now I have courage. She gave me courage, gave me dreams.

I love her more than I could ever say, so I hold her in her time of weakness, her guardian, as she has been mine. I know the others can see me, and I know they all have their own thoughts, about us; Their opinions of our love and how we show it. None of them are entirely innocent. They have no right to tell us who we are, as I have never had the right to form my own opinions. I laugh. No, they can say all they want. That doesn't mean we're going to change.

She hears me laugh and smiles. The tears have stopped, and the rain is washing them away. She grieves over what has been lost, but never was she angry with those who did it. I am, knowing that they cause the one person I care about so much pain, but her forgiving twists my heart into forgetting.

She thanks me for being with her, but I deserve no thanks. I stopped repaying all she's done for me long ago, and this is the only way I can show that I feel, that I will be forever devoted to the girl who gave so much to save my soul.

We are all nameless soldiers, reaching and straining for that bright light at the end of the tunnel— only to find that's it's the headlamp of another oncoming train. I finally found that light, but only because she pointed me to it.


	6. Soldier's Companion

Nameless Soldiers **__**

Nameless Soldiers

Soldier's Companion

We live in a time of nameless soldiers, taken to the battlefields like machines that can just be rebuilt and replaced, soldiers that care nothing of sentiment.

I shiver inside my sweater. It's black. I never wear black, the color of mourning. He holds me tightly, feeling that I am cold, only I'm just frightened for those who destroyed my home.

Life has always been valuable to me, but none so more as after he showed me just how easy it was to lose. Following that, just how little life means when there is no person inside the shell. It is better to have men who fight with conviction than men who fight because other men are fighting. That's my belief.

Long ago I looked into his eyes and saw a boy, trapped inside the recesses of his own mind, being frightened to show himself because he's not perfect. No one is perfect.

I remember before I knew him, and how different I was. I would never have been bold enough to tell him to kill someone. I would never have been brave enough to make passionate speeches about my beliefs.

I would never have been brave enough to make passionate love the way I do with him.

My strength gone, he gathers me in his strong arms and takes me inside the camp to rest. He brings me tea, food, his eyes so much warmer and very concerned. I assure him I'll be okay, but his worry is still there. He is always my bedside companion now that he is needed nowhere else. To tell the truth, he makes me feel safe. Without him with me in the night I would feel so lonely, so vulnerable. I can't imagine how I ever did it without him now.

They are all my friends, and I would trust any of them with my life without a thought. That's why they're here now, when they could be other places, enjoying themselves. I know they will be here to help me rebuild the shattered kingdom, because they care.

The world is at peace, but I know it won't last. The human race has too many reasons to fight to be as peaceful as they would like to be. They're not really reasons, as we like to think, but excuses. There is no reason why we can't have a perfect peace— except for the limiting factor, us. Fear is the emotion from which all other emotions developed. The closest offshoot is anger. Most of us, when we don't understand or don't know what's going on, are afraid. Then we get mad. The hard part is finding a release for that anger that won't put others in danger. There can never be an end to violence— it's too much of an instinct. If we let go of it, we would lose part of what it is to be human. There can be battles without war. That should be the goal, since it is easier to see.

It may sound cruel, but violence is only a form of population control. While we can master disease, animals and ill nutrition, we can never master ourselves. We can never outdo ourselves. There is only one of us.

Out there in the fields are nameless soldiers left to be forever. I don't know how many skeletons are buried in my lawn, further than the graveyard. There are so many with headstones I don't want to think about all that don't have one.


	7. Soldier's Conflict

Nameless Soldiers **__**

Nameless Soldiers

Soldier's Conflict

We are nameless soldiers, holding guns to each other's heads in deep mistrust, squandering the ability to negotiate and be tolerant because our feelings override us.

I watch them together as the firelight takes over the camp and dusk settles over us with a net of darkness, fireflies stuck to the weave. More hover around us, yet to be captured. I don't stay with the others, but I know she sleeps with him. It weighs upon my chest, both worry and happiness for her. Perhaps, yes, I feel jealous because he is her guard now and not I. I have to let her go; she can no longer be under my wing all the time. It frightens me.

We grow distant, in some ways. The bond of love we felt is no longer so expressive since we have to tolerate each other all the time, in this small place. She shares a quiet, candle-lit dinner with him, her lover and her deepest friend. I know she tells him things I will never know.

I don't know why I told her I trust him when she came to me for advice. I can't believe I gave her my council, my experience— or lack thereof. He's my enemy because he knows her so well. I trust my enemy more than I have ever trusted any of my friends. Thereupon with my testimony, this becomes evident: I am one fucked up man. Not really a man, but still a boy. Of course, fucked up in the figurative sense of the phrase only, never literally.

My own puts her arms around me, bare in the warm Mediterranean night, and whispers in my ear. She plays, but I don't think she knows how much it hurts me when she teases. Me, being as naïve and pure-minded as I can allow myself. She tells me I close myself off to my past, and I don't deny it although she's convinced I simply don't wish to acknowledge it. I want to forget all I've seen and be as innocent as I used to be. If I could back up twelve years to when everything happened, I'd do anything to warn them of the coming apocalypse. Even if it meant losing my woman.

Her playful mood is dropped as she notices my attentions. She sighs and kisses my cheek, as if she understood. I take hold of her arm, feeling the soft, warm skin under my fingers, and tell her not to leave. I've run myself in circles yet again with this mindless, meaningless brooding. She holds me in silence, for once not pursuing my bitter thoughts. By the campfire, I begin to drift off and she lets me rest against her. It has been a harrowing day. It was time to let go for a while, she whispers to me. 

I glance up and see that indeed the evening has faded into night, as a new chapter has begun in our lives. It's time to rebuild what are cinders on the ground. It is time to repair old wounds and erase the scars. It is time to make something greater that so many people once had faith in. I see yet another falling angel, a shooting star, and wonder what it was from. Was it a piece of our wreckage not yet dissolved or merely a leftover of the universe's own formation? I'll never know, now that it's dissolved in flames. I guess it doesn't matter, now that it's gone. I wonder . . . does it work the same way with people? Good or evil— or merely a regular with good intentions— I don't think it matters. Death is just blankness after life. People make up afterlives to that they aren't afraid of the unknown. I've seen emptiness. Compared to some things we do to ourselves, it really isn't too bad.

She yawns against my shoulder and snuggles as close as I will allow. I look up and see the lovers have left. We are the only ones left out under a blanket of cobalt sky and moonlight. I make up my mind.

I turn around and kiss her, as she had long wanted this night, I know. She returns it steadily, slowly savoring it. There is my tent, still lit. I always sleep alone.

Not tonight. Never again.

We are nameless soldiers combating the loneliness we feel inside ourselves, day in, day out. But when the night comes, things are illuminated in ways never before. Love is not something to be thrown away. To think I could lecture those words and not know myself what they meant makes me disappointed with myself.


	8. Soldier's Pride

Nameless Soldiers **__**

Nameless Soldiers

Soldier's Pride

We are nameless soldiers, looking on to the horizon and expecting to see the sun. Sometimes we are told it will not rise, but not even man can employ that much power over the universe. _The sun will rise, the sun will set. All is remembered, lest we forget._

My eagerness and anticipation build, as the bonfire burns ever lower. Something has changed inside him today. I wonder if now is the right time, after all that preaching about not holding back. He seems so complacent, so at-ease although I know he's tortured inside. I've been trying for years to help, but he thinks himself so tough that he doesn't need it.

I know he's been through a lot, but even those who take the high road must face obstacles. No one suffers more than another, although perhaps in different ways. I've seen enough suffering to last a star multiple lifetimes.

Now, he wants me to be with him, although I've sworn many times before I'll never leave his side. I'm willing to do anything for him, but I have my needs and desires too. Sometimes I think he doesn't realize that.

I kiss him again, to instigate conversation. He's losing interest, falling asleep, I know. It's late, and it's been an exhausting day. I open my mouth to tell him I can wait— again— but can't say it. I've been so giving all this time and now it's time for me to have some reward. I know he wants it but is afraid to admit it. He's gentile like that. That is one of his deepest flaws, however. He doesn't express his needs any more than his wants. Later, no one understands why he is suffering.

I take hold of his jaw, gently, and whisper in honest words what I want and what I know he wants. He says nothing, stony like a great monolith that never cares about anything. I stroke his hair, full of grit from the smoke and sand. I remember when it was shorter, how boyish he looked. Now, he's too old. He needs to let go of some things.

As the last lick of fire fades to glowing coals, he smiles and pledges to build the flame I never got out of him in vague, poetic words. He is always the politician, no matter how much he claims to be unworthy. I think he really fears of privacy issues, but he shouldn't have to worry about a thing. The others wouldn't speak of it; they're much too used to it. Now, it's late and I hear snores from the other tents. I hear quiet words between the others, quiet emotions, quiet fears.

I hug him tight, knowing my dreams are coming true this night. We make our way back to his shelter, destined not to be alone again. I've waited years for him, and it's finally here. Never let opportunity go. You must seize it by the throat until it begs for mercy. Then, you mustn't release until you've had all you want and one for the road.

I've learned to be brave. I've learned to be cold. I've never learned not to _feel_. 

We are nameless soldiers told to await orders. For years, I've been giving them. For years, I followed only him— as I continue to now. I know someday that he will realize what I mean to him. I don't think he knows. We have power over ourselves to hide and to be strong that others don't let us see inside ourselves. That is the greatest tragedy of all.


	9. Soldier's Stolidity

Nameless Soldiers   
  
Soldiers Stolidity  
  
I am a nameless soldier, lost within a maze with no finish, running though ever deeper shadows looking for a sun that I only see in my dreams. It's finally over. Thank God, it's finally over. I feel flooded with relief, knowing I'm free. He's free.  
  
I didn't realize the shell around me had grown so thick, grown into me so much that I was split. Nothing devastates more than desperation . . . desperation in every aspect of existence, most of all a futile love. Wherever it leads, you know you're the only element capable of being sacrificed. Sanity is so fragile, like an eggshell filled with paint thinner.  
  
I was an accident, my whole life I mean. I was born unwanted, and I made something of it. I triumphed where others thought I would fail, held the fort when those around me wilted. That's why I know I've made it farthest - I tried. Nothing fills he wells of darkness more than success and the pleasure of triumphing over your enemies.  
  
There was always one above all others. I would - and did - give up everything I'd worked so hard to gain for him. I don't know why he denied me for so long, possibly because of image but more likely because he wasn't willing to acknowledge the reality of it. he was like that, always a dreamer, a schemer, a romantic. Being from a similar background, I can't imagine where he got such optimism, especially after what happened. It was cruel, though, and unnecessary, and I supposed that's what he had wanted so I became so. Only then did I discover that I could never match his grace, his elegance. Oho, that was enlightening.  
  
Yes, I know what happened. Anyone where we come from can tell you and he did nothing to hide it. he expected much, I think, and I made me reluctant to intrude. Perhaps it was all and well that I had, though, for that fall could have shattered the fragile glass that his heart really was.  
  
It was chance, what happened I mean. He misjudged the boy - as we as had at some point - and had to accept a fate he didn't want. It should not have happened, and it makes one slightly suspicious.  
  
It's dark and desolate here, appropriate for mourning. Some things can never be rebuilt to their original splendor. In fact, most things cannot sustain once wounded. That's how it was with him. It ill have my vengeance, and because I am better I will succeed! Death justifies death . . . a thousand gallons of blood spilt will quench my thirst. If not, we have many more people than we need in this world. I will not stop for anything. I will not stop until I'm with him again. That's all that matters.  
  
And so I fight. I will fight as best I can for what he can no longer lead. I will fight because he believed in peace, but I will fight because he believed in the humanity of war. There is nothing I cannot do, nothing I cannot accomplish in his memory.  
  
But I did try so hard to join him in his new place, unwilling to live, to breathe, to think without him there. Nothing else in the world matters, nothing at all. I know now, however, that he left me behind to accomplish a mission. His final mission is to care for them. All of them, not just his own. I'll watch them with a ready eye, a ready fist. I will war for them and be brutal. I will uphold the ideals they have impressed so far upon me, and the ones their minds have yet to reveal.  
  
I am a nameless soldier, held fast between the brightness and darkness of the world, arms stretching too far apart, neck arched in agony, screaming with rage and cruelty and pain and loss and tragedy and a sense of beautiful peace and enlightenment. A state of emergency . . . how beautiful to be.  
  
)()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()(  
  
[]Quick footnote: that last line is from the Björk song "State of Emergency." I do not own it, so do not sue me.[]  



End file.
